An Open Letter to My Abuser

How are you doing? I am doing alright, it’s been a while since you thought of me, hasn’t it? I think of you more than I should. What you did to me taints my every action; it forces me to second-guess every single person in my life. Does that guy really like my shirt, or are his eyes looking to my breasts? Is she grooming me, or is she genuinely my friend? Who is using me and who isn’t? Every day a question like this passes my mind, and to be honest I blame you. You took my innocence away when I was 13. You stole the last drops of my childhood and forced me to grow up. I remember exactly what you did, no detail has moved from that day.

We were sitting in the living room. I was holding my infant sister on my lap, bouncing her slightly as you sat on the green reclining couch just a foot or so apart from me. You had just changed the channel from football to a Will Ferrell movie (I found out just last year that the name of this movie is Talladega Nights) and we were watching it. You were sprawled out on the couch as an explicit scene came on. Will’s character (I have only seen this part of the movie and refuse to watch it) and a blonde woman began making out above a table and start making animal sounds. In a perfect world, you would have said, “Can you turn away, this is inappropriate?”

Instead, you turned to me and asked, “Have you ever done anything like that?” I shook my head and replied “no.” You smiled and asked if I would like to.

Again I replied, “No."

You then turned to my baby sister who couldn’t even walk yet and said, “Let’s see how big your sister has gotten.” You then reached your hand under my shirt and groped my left breast.

Instantaneously, I stood and walked out of the room. I’m sure you panicked; I’m sure your stomach dropped, waiting for the moment my stepfather went out there and ripped you apart. I know you waited for me to tell my parents and destroy your life. But, instead of that happening, I walked straight by my parents and went outside to play with the kids. I didn’t tell. I didn’t breathe a word, and I wouldn’t for two years. You only touched me once, but you had groomed me everytime you saw me for two years.

That’s what hurt the most. Not the physical abuse, but the mental. I was forced to move across the country when I was only 11 years old; right after my mother got married and had my baby half-brother. I knew no one, the attention was no longer on me, and you saw that weakness. You would tell me you wanted to play, you would introduce me to other children, you seemed to favor me, and I fell for it. I let you in. I looked forward to seeing you. I couldn’t wait, until that day you groped my breast.

The only thing I knew that day was that it was wrong. I didn’t know how sick it was, I was completely innocent to that. However, my mother always drilled this into my head: “If you are ever unconformable or don’t feel safe, walk away.” I did. I threw away your years of conditioning and stood up. I held my head high as I sauntered out of that living room. I didn’t let you have me. Without realizing it, I saved myself from years of torture and more abuse. Looking back now, seven years later, walking away from you is one of my proudest moments. I pride myself on the fact that, despite conditioning that worked on other children, I walked away.

After that day, I still went to my grandfather’s when you were there. I still subjected myself to your gaze. I was always sick with worry, but I went, for my siblings, to make sure you didn’t do it to them. I went until I was 14 and then stopped. My anxiety would get so bad I would get physically ill. I missed Christmas dinner once because of you. Finally one day my stepfather was watching America’s Most Wanted and I discovered what molestation was. My heart sunk as realization struck.

A little while after that my mom and I were fighting and I screamed, “You don’t even know I was molested!” She stopped dead in her tracks and let me go to bed. The next day she took me back to her room and asked if I meant it. I explained to her that I would never lie about that. She asked who did it and I had no issue naming you. She then called her husband who later told me that I was lying; there was no way that happened. That destroyed my confidence.

Nothing came of any accusation. You had won. You got away with who knows how much because I was too ignorant to tell my parents sooner. You had no remorse. The only thing that gave me comfort was the fear, I’m sure, plagued you every time you saw me or my family. However, you since have been outed as a pedophile and a molester, even possibly a rapist. At the end of 2016, I got a phone call not ten minutes before I was heading to work. It was from my stepfather. He was crying and apologizing.

You were caught sticking your fingers in a seven-year-old’s vagina.

You were caught! My stepfather cried as he apologized about failing me, but I didn’t blame him. I blame you. Every single day of my life since then I have carried around the guilt of that poor girl being assaulted. Maybe if I spoke up sooner you wouldn’t have been hurt. I was never given your name, mystery girl, but I am so sorry. I should have tried harder, I feel responsible, and my heart goes out to you.

Now, before I finish this letter, I must say, I believe that pedophilia is a mental disorder, and you should seek help. However, this is not an excuse to ruin children’s lives. If you want more information on that, just Google “pedophilia is a mental illness?” and I am certain that you can find more information; however, I do not want to go into detail here.

Despite everything you’ve done, I forgive you. I hope you find help.